


Changes People

by holmesology



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Other, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesology/pseuds/holmesology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after the wedding of John and Mary, from Sherlock and John's perspectives? An AU triad of the happenings and heartbreaks of after Sherlock leaves his best friend's wedding. Contains much angst.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This the first chapter of what will be a three part story. This is from Sherlock's perspective, and the next will be from John's, and the last will be third person. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and reviews are much appreciated. See my profile to find my blog. And thank you so much to my wonderful beta reader, Pam!

All at once, my brain felt like it had stopped. Like a force had come in and just blocked it, shutting it off from any thoughts, connections, or observations that were otherwise flowing in steadily. They all seemed to be gone, replaced with blackness and emptiness. The loud dance floor around me continued to sing, lights flashing in my eyes, voices and music ringing my ears. But the only thing I could see, the only thing I could hear, was John.

There he was.

Dancing with Mary, spinning her around so her white dress picked up at the heels. Her eyes locked with his, their mouths formed into twin smiles I thought only possible between John and myself. Joy seemed to be overflowing from the pair of them, crashing onto everyone in it’s wake. They seemed to be the only ones in the world, all alone in their bliss. And there I was, alone. John didn’t even notice me, I wasn’t even in his thoughts.

Had I ever been?

It became too much. Everyone, even the bridesmaid who had been looking for someone all night, was dancing or chatting with other people. The entire world except for me seemed to be together, dancing and spinning and laughing all together. Normally, I wouldn’t care about such a thing. I didn’t need people, I never had. But John. . .John wasn’t people. I needed him.

So I decided to leave, my legs striding to the doors at the end of the long dance hall. Bodies bumped into me as I passed, but nobody looked up to say anything. Or maybe they did, and I just didn’t care. The blackness in my head had been replaced by a dull pounding, then a thudding so loud it overpowered the music being blasted into the room. All the while my legs carried me out of the room, my arms throwing the doors open. Cold air hit me like a block, and I grabbed my coat and scarf from the rack by the exit. A man wearing a tux bid me goodnight, opening the door and tipping his hat, but I paid him no mind. The pounding was growing stronger by the second, and thoughts began to pour in once more.

 _How could I have let this happen? How could I have thought John_ loved _me? He never did, of course he didn’t._ My brain was on fire, words pouring in just as fast as the beats racking it. I swung my coat over myself to shield from the cold, but inside, I was burning hot. Everything inside me was exploding, making more noise than any wedding party could ever make. More noise than it had made when I first met John, more noise than when I had to leave him, just three years ago.

Still I walked, the only sound being made besides the unforgiving pounding in my skull being the sound of my heavy shoes clapping on the dry pavement. The air was bitterly cold, wind whipping my hair around, cooling off my burning face. It all seemed to be mocking me, everything around me. Y _ou aren’t good enough for him, and you never were_ , the world said. I was silent back. There was nothing to say.

Then, the one thing happened that I never expected. A sensation I hadn’t experienced since I was small, a happening I had been trying to avoid for years since. I had long since forgotten how it felt, for it had been years since I had let myself go like this. Not since I was a child, when I was weak.

I started crying. Tears were coming out of my eyes, blurring my view of the dark sky and road in front of me. My eyes were just beginning to become wet, the wind making them sting. I didn’t dare shut them though, and kept walking until I reached the lit street. My hand went up, my head went out. A black taxi pulled up, stopping just where I stood. The motor ran on, and I felt lost. My legs kept me moving to the cab, my hands opening the door and myself sitting inside. But they were just reflexes, my brain was still filled with the loud pounding. And my eyes still had the tears, they had not yet fallen onto my face.

“Where to, sir?” the voice came from the front of the cab. I didn’t register it at first, my mind was wandering back to the wedding. Imagining John’s arms being filled with me instead of Mary, dancing the night away with him as we laughed about the days we were going to share. The rest of our lives, in fact. I painted a scene, with us in the middle, waltzing to the piece I composed. Just the two of us, against the world.

“Sir?” The voice came again. It was gruff, and tired. My mind was thrown back into the cab. The tears were coming back.

“Ah, yes. Baker Street. 221B,” I managed to speak dully before touching the button to break the connection between the cabbie and I. The air was silent again and I let my mind drift back to the wedding, pretending it was my own. Going through a ceremony, saying I Do’s, promising myself to John. Cutting the cake, dancing our first dance, giving him a kiss. It was illogical of course, imagining I was marrying John. But it gave me some solace and filled me with bliss for the duration of the cab ride, blocking out the life I was actually living. Even if it was for just for a little while.

A lurch brought me spinning back to the real world again, and I saw we were back at the flat. My flat, not our’s anymore. I threw the needed quid into the dish, paying more than necessary most likely, and got out of the cab without saying a word. My eyes were dry now, but I could feel it coming again. The tears. My throat closing up, my lip quivering. My insides feeling like molten lava, everything hot and pressured. Would I explode?

My hands quickly unlocked the door, and I let my eyes flash briefly up to the apartment numbers above my head. A memory of meeting John at the front step of this very apartment, shaking his hand and showing him in, was thrown into my mind. _Ah, Mr. Holmes._ My mouth formed a tight smile, a knot forming in my throat. _Sherlock, please._

Then I was going up the stairs, not even bothering to lock the door behind me. What was the point? My feet were up in my flat, and the rest of my body followed until I was in the sitting room. It was all dusty from neglect, and completely empty of people. Alone again, it seemed.

But they came again, the tears. They were building up inside until they were spilling out unto my cheeks, running down in thin lines. I let myself collapse onto the couch, the saltiness stinging down my face. Soon they were pouring out with no hope of stopping, but I stayed silent, my mouth shut into a firm line. They chocked me, and my eyes closed. The world was shut out, and I was back in my head.

My imagination thunked me somewhere else now, not at the wedding, or on the front step of Baker Street, but in Bart’s hospital. In the exact clinic I was when John walked in, doing an experiment I’d deleted since.

But it wasn’t a memory. Because this time, instead of John walking in, I walked in. I was wearing the exact clothes I was now, the tuxedo picked out by Mary months ago and the creme flowers given to me this morning by Mrs. Hudson. The self that was already the one in the room, the one I was viewing from, looked up and locked eyes with my other self.

“Are you really that stupid, Sherlock?” said the man who had just walked in the room.

I cocked an eyebrow, staring this other Sherlock straight in the face. The whole scene was playing like an old film, everything grainy. “What do you mean?” He laughed, shaking his head at me.

“Ah c’mon, _THINK!_ ” He rolled his eyes, sneering at me. Made a face I had only seen one man make, and that man had died years ago with a bullet to the brain. “Did you really think John would ever love _you_? Pick _you_ over _her_? Over _anybody?_ ”

I didn’t know what to say. “I. . .I-” my mouth stammered, not being able to form a complete thought. My brain felt jumbled, and worse, _ordinary_.

The other Sherlock just smirked. “He doesn’t, Sherlock. And he never did. You were a friend, yes, even a best friend, but what does that mean?” He was walking around the lab table now, coming up so we were practically nose to nose. “Isn’t Mike Stamford also his best friend? And Lestrade? The term means nothing, just like you.” I could feel his breath on my face, hear his heart beating under the layers of clothes he wore. Or was it my heart?

“But-” my voice was croaking now, straining to come out from the lump forming in m throat. I was spiraling down, my ears ringing.

A laugh erupted from the man. “No, there aren’t any ‘but’s about it, Sherlock. John’s married now, he has a woman. Something he’s been looking for ever since he stepped off the airplane, arrived in London, called home from Afghanistan. It’s all he’s ever wanted. And now that he has Mary, and a baby on the way, he doesn’t need you. Why would he?” Everything was too close, too much. I slammed my hands against my head, trying to shut out this other Sherlock, but he just kept going. His voice came as a yell now, loud in my burning ears.

“Why would he need _you_ , a man who left him for three years? A man who almost got him killed countless times, who has never said a word of endearment in all of your relationship? He’s going to have a family now, Sherlock, and you don’t come into that picture. You _never_ did.” The shouts echoed in the cool room, and I was on my knees in front of him.

Tears were falling down in this world too, my vision becoming blurry as I crouched down and sobbed.

Sherlock in front of me was laughing once more, and leant down to stare at me over his long nose. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, as if he was telling me a secret only for my ears. “Oh, Sherlock. John doesn’t care about you. All you have now is me, all you have left is you. Better get used to it, because no one else cares about you.”

My knees were pressed on the cold linoleum floor, tears seeping into my tux jacket and pants as they fell down. Suddenly, right before my eyes, the ground below my feet was turned to dark wood, and I was away from Bart’s.

I realized at once that I was in the house where the fourth victim of the case with the taxi driver, the Pink Lady dead before me. I, myself was still crouching on the floor, but another Sherlock was there too. His, no my, mouth was spouting off observations, churning out the connections quicker than I could hear, all to just Lestrade. The inspector was nodding, and alone where he stood by the doorway. There wasn’t anyone else in the room besides us two. No John.

Then it all changed again and I was in 221B, playing violin at night. John’s chair was empty, the room completely silent except for the strings singing softly. Then I found myself at Angelo’s eating, the chair in front of me vacant. Running around London, alone to my deductions and rushing traffic. Standing in the pool with Moriarty, the only one helping me being the gun in my hand. These images played through in my minds like a photo album, moving fast and without abandon. Each time, I was still crouched on the ground as my real self did everything by himself. Without John. Sitting in the Buckingham Palace, alone. Solving crimes, alone. Having tea, alone. Watching crap telly, alone. Being in 221B.

Alone.

All of my memories, everything I did was done alone. Yes, there were other people, but there wasn’t John. Everything was being rewritten, all the times I’d had with him at my side were now times I’d spent with no one. The laughter turned to silence, the smiles to bleak frowns. My mind was swirling, everything just another reminder. A reminder of. . .this life I was going to have to live now. Because now, I didn’t have John.

And I never would.

But then I was out of my head, back into the real 221B. On the couch, my arms at my sides. My eyes snapped open, taking stock of the room. It was empty, the only thing around were papers and laptops, misshaped experiments and oddly strewn clothing.

I forced myself to get up, and noticed my face was dry and sore due to the tears. A sleeve came up to wipe it, and the fabric of my suit jacket brushed up against my stiff skin. My mind had gone back to usual, the thoughts of talking to myself at Bart’s and the visions of my life without John having washed away. The only sound being made in the room was my breath, deep and long. In and out.

I knew what I had to do.

 

It took approximately three minutes and twenty-seven seconds to find it, the beaten-up brown case I had possessed since I was in University. I had acquired it years ago, but it had been hidden in Baker Street since John had moved in. I’d put it away myself, deleting the information of where it was hidden to ensure I wouldn’t get it out again. It didn’t seem needed once I had met John, didn’t seem necessary. But it was easy to find, buried deep beneath the boxes of things in my closet.

I brought it into the sitting room, perching on the couch once more and sitting the case onto the table in front of my knees. My nimble fingers opened the latch quickly, and I breathed it in. The chemicals I thought I would never need again, due to the fact I had someone. _John._ But I didn’t have him anymore, did I?

My fingers pulled out a bottle, marked with a single penciled x. It was a bottle I had never used, kept in the smallest section of the velvet undercasings of the box. It was one that, with a single shot into a vein would kill me, taking no longer than a few minutes for the chemicals to work. Making their way into my bloodstream, then traveling up to my heart. Filling my whole body with poison and decaying the life I had once had.

I turned the little vial over and over in my hands, viewing it from all angles. My hands were shaking, my fingers turned ice cold. Everything felt dark, and the deep pounding was back in my skull, hitting me with a sort of fervidity that made me want to scream. Everything felt to be spinning, and I was only thinking of the power I had in my hands. I brought out the needle and shot hidden in the case, about to draw from the bottle, when I spotted a notepad. It was one that was kept on the table in front of the couch, now filled with wedding details, but flipped to a bare page. A pen was poised to the side, almost begging me to pick it up. Soon my hands were lowering the bottle and it’s needle, slowly putting them back into the velvet case.

The pad and pen replaced them, and I paused. The unwritten words were budding in my mind, ready to be plucked out and written plainly for someone to read. But I felt hesitant to write, the finality of it looming.

My lungs breathed in deep, and the tip of the pen pressed down onto the page.

 

_Dear John,_

_I’m sorry. There are more reasons than I can write on this page, for I have obviously done much wrong to you in the years we have known one another. I have been an “idiot” and a “cock” and a “machine” among many other things. You were right in calling me that, righter than I’ve ever been. You don’t need me anymore, and maybe you never have. But I know that I didn’t deserve you, John. I never did._

_Because now you have Mary. You have someone you can live a long life with, someone you can kiss goodnight to. Someone who can be all that I cannot: a lover. You can have a family now, one that doesn’t perform experiments on the kitchen table and keep severed heads in the fridge._

_You were someone who changed my life, who saved me in more ways than one, and I can never begin to thank you for it. You were the person I cared about most in the world, and nothing can change that. The only person I ever truly cared about, really. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Because now, I don’t even have you._

_So this is my note. My real note, not the one I gave you over the phone that day on the roof. This is the note where I tell you everything._

_John, I love you. Since the day we met, when we sat in Angelo’s talking of girlfriends and boyfriends and being married to work, when we chased that cab down London, when you shot a man to save me. I’ve loved you ever since; my feelings for you never fading, never changing. You were the one constant in my life, the one thing I felt I had right, the one person that knew me above else. You were all these things to me, and more._

_But I was not yours, nor am I now. For now you have another, and that’s all you ever wished for. Marriage does change people, after all. I hope you have a great life together, spent through many a days. And I know now our chapter is over, and that means mine is as well. For good._

_You don’t need me, you never did. You need a wife and a family, not a crazy detective who chases cabs around London. Who writes blogs on tobacco ash, who shoots bullets at the walls, who keeps you up into the early morning hours playing violin. You need someone to watch telly with, to make dinner with, to sleep with at night. To be with until you die._

_And I’m sorry I could not provide that._

_I love you more than you can ever know, and I hope your life is extraordinary._

_You certainly have made mine so._

_Love, SH._

 

I signed the note, placing it back on the table where anyone could view. My hands were reaching for the vial and needle again, and I where John was right now. Probably leaving for his honeymoon, smiling with his new wife as they made their way down the road to their new life.

And then I was lying back on the couch, and my sleeve was rolled up to the elbow. The shot was filled with the clear chemicals from the vial, and the needle was resting on the skin in the middle of my arm. My eyes squeezed shut, tears sputtering out again. Them my voice came out, clear as anything. Ringing in the empty room, heard by only me. “Goodbye, John. I love you.”

Then my thumb was squeezing down, and the liquid was pumped into my skin. It poured into my veins like fire, filling me to the last ounce. Killing everything in it’s wake, allowing me to fall asleep without a single thought or feeling. And then everything was floating away, just a single word floating in the air, high above my head.

_“Sherlock!”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of Changes People, from John Watson's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I begin the chapter, just let me give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who commented/kudo'd/bookmarked/tumblr messaged me about this fic. It's my first fanfiction and all of the nice comments and things really meant a lot.
> 
> So anyway, here is part two of Changes People. This fic has now moved into full fledged AU territory after His Last Vow airing yesterday, so do not expect any of this to follow the plot of what is going on right now in the show.
> 
> Again, thank you Pam, my editor, and thank you all for reading. Please review, if possible. Here we go!

“Mary?” I tapped my new wife on the shoulder, and she turned around from where she was chatting with some old friends from school. A warm smile came over her face, and lights from all parts of the room shined on her, making her eyes twinkle and gleam. The dance still went on around us, going strong even though the reception was almost over.

“Hey! John, sorry. Just catching up with some girls from Uni, haven’t seen them is _forever._ This is Kathy, Andrea, and Jessica,” she introduced, pointing at each woman in turn. They were sitting in a semi-circle at the table, sipping from tall wine glasses and eating chocolates from the buffet table. All three women smiled at me, giving waves and little niceties. 

I said a short hello to each, thanking them for coming, and then grabbed Mary by the elbow and pulled her to the side. People moved around us as we found a spot alone, leaning close to each other on the crowded dance floor. 

“Do you know where Sherlock is?” I asked, bowing my head close to hers so we could hear each other over the loud music. It pulsed around us, playing a tune I didn’t recognize. Something with a lot of synth.

A look of confusion came over Mary’s face, and her eyes darted around the room to search for the tuft of curly hair and the tall detective underneath. It wouldn’t do any good though, I’d already checked the room three times over. 

Obviously there was no avail, because she shook her head, blonde pieces of hair swinging side to side around her face. “Er, no. Sorry. I haven’t seem him since earlier when we. . .you know,” she told me, gesturing to her stomach. I nodded. It was something that I had been obsessing about all evening, the baby. We hadn’t even talked about the subject since our talk with Sherlock. It was partly out of fear of the prospect of having a child that we didn’t mention it, but mostly because it was impossible to catch a moment alone. People had been coming up to us all night, wanting to shake our hands and tell us how “beautiful” of a couple we looked. It was nice, but didn’t allow us much time to ourselves. 

But oddly enough, right now I couldn’t think of the baby at all. My mind was on something else. _Someone_ else. 

I wiped my forehead, feeling beads of sweat forming forming and making trails down my hot face. Everything was starting to feel too close, the music too loud, the room too warm. “Okay,” I said, my head swiveling around to check for the man once more. “Well I haven’t seen him either, I was just wondering where he went off to.” My voice was going from casual to slightly concerned. Where the hell was he? I hadn’t seen him in over an hour, and there were no texts on my phone, either. It was almost like he had disappeared, or left early. Really early.

The party was just wrapping up thirty minutes later. The the older family members and the people with children had already left, and now the majority of the wedding party was saying it’s goodbyes to Mary and I. They gave us kisses and congratulations, going through the “beautiful couple” routine once more. Everyone we knew just had to talk to us. Mrs. Hudson came up later than the others and gave us each a hug, wishing us a good honeymoon tomorrow. “I’ll be going to visit some old friends tonight, but will I see you in the morning before you both leave?” she asked, her smile wide and eyes creased. We gave her a nod, and she bestowed more affection on us. I tried to be pleasant, exchanging smiles and hugs.

But I was starting to feel on edge.

Greg was leaving now too, and Molly with her new boyfriend, Tom. The floor was emptying fast, and before long Mary and I were nearly alone in the great room, the music turned off and the decorations worn. Still no sign of Sherlock.

“Seriously though, where _is_ he?” I asked again, walking around the ballroom to check for any sign of the man. Mary was right along side me, shaking her head all the while. We checked in all the halls and smaller rooms, even calling his name a few times. We called him on his mobile too, but it just kept going straight to voicemail. He must have turned it off earlier before the reception. 

We kept searching for a little while more before Mary stopped me from checking the mens restroom for the fifth time, her hand wrapping around my arm. “John, I don’t know why Sherlock left, but he’s definitely not here. Theres no point in looking anymore,” Mary said, her eyes meeting mine. I nodded, knowing she was right. “It is very odd that he didn’t say goodbye, though,” she added, raising an eyebrow. 

A bitter laugh came out of me, breaking off at the end. “Yeah, it is sort of strange he didn’t say goodbye to his best friend on his fucking wedding night, isn’t it?” I felt myself getting angry. I hadn’t even seen Sherlock for the majority of the night, for christ’s sake. This was a day I wanted to share with him, and he’d just _left._ My best man just _left_ in the middle of the wedding reception. Where in the hell had he gone off to? 

Mary just looked at me sadly, taking my hand in one of her and stroking it a bit with her other before kissing it lightly with glossed lips. “I don’t know why, but you know Sherlock,” she said, nuzzling a little closer to me. The anger was changing into nerves, and even though Mary was trying to calm me down I still couldn’t ignore the weird feeling I was getting. Because it still didn’t make any sense. Even if Sherlock _did_ want to leave a little early, why didn’t he just come and say goodbye? Or even catch my eye on the way out? It might have been like him to leave an event like this early, but on my _wedding night?_ What kind of best man leaves the wedding early? These questions wracked my brain, and yet I could not find answer for any of them. Everything was starting to feel odd, and I just wanted to get out of there. 

I took Mary by the hand, giving her a kiss on the forehead. My mind was starting to obsess over Sherlock now, inquiries of what had happened bombarding me. But I tried to ignore it, putting on a normal face. Mary and I began to leave, and said goodbye to the few remaining wedding guests and workers as we left the ballroom. We didn’t say much to each other though, and mostly kept quiet as we made our way to the exit. And then we were out in the cold, a heavy coat wrapped around Mary’s bare arms and a grey scarf tied around my neck. The night surrounded us, and we were walking down the pavement slowly, arm in arm. 

On the outside, everything seemed perfect. The perfect night, the perfect girl, off to a new life with a perfect family. I had everything every man ever wanted, living the dream, right? It certainly seemed so.

 All except one thing: my thoughts about Sherlock. They had not subsided, not in a long shot, and were starting to turn to outright _fear._ The questions began to come quicker, and I thought back to his days using drugs, men who might want him dead, situations he might have gotten himself into. _Where had he gone? Why wasn’t he here? What happened to him?_

_Was it my fault?_

I couldn’t take it anymore, the inner turmoil I was going through was spilling out the edges. “Mary,” I said, turning to her and breaking the silence that was once between us. The air felt bone cold to my bare face, and wind ripped through our hair.

“Yes?”

My mouth stayed closed, the prospect of talking seemed difficult. I was beginning to fear for his life now, and the dark sky seemed to be falling down on me. I knew the physical symptoms of fear, and I was starting to show. My body was beginning to shake, a tremor was overtaking the hand that wasn’t gripping Mary’s. My left. My breath was becoming shorter and more hitched, and a ringing was overtaking my ears. “I’m getting worried about Sherlock. Really worried.” It came out quietly, I was unable to make it any louder, like my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to. But even though it was barely a whisper, Mary heard it loud and clear. She saw my hand, felt my unsteadiness and trembling. She understood what was happening.

We kept walking, the air quiet again. If you were an outsider looking in, you’d think everything was normal, that we were just a couple walking down the pavement together, holding hands. There were no words said between us, and we looked like a couple that was quietly enjoying their evening together. But that wasn’t that case.

It wasn’t until we reached the road when Mary finally spoke, “Me too. 

Then everything started to go fast. We ran to the street, and I held my hand out for a cab, waving it a little to catch the attention of a car just down the road. It pulled up beside us, and I noticed my heart was beating faster, pumping blood quick enough to reach my head and feet at seemingly the same time. The fear was taking me under now, and fast. Mary and I slid into the backseat, our hands no longer intertwined. Mine were wringing around each other, hers tapping fast rhythms on her knee. _Tap, tap, tap, tap._ I watched them, trying to distract myself from the thoughts. They were blaming me now, for everything. For not being with Sherlock enough during the wedding, for not checking in on him sooner, for. . .whatever I did. And all the while my lungs were taking in their short breaths in the stuffy taxi, making my head swim and chest tighten.

The driver didn’t even ask where to go before I told him, my voice wavering. “221B Baker St, please,” I said, nodding to the cabbie as he pulled out into the street. It was almost ten now, and the sky was dark above our heads as we made our way to the flat. Nobody said a word the entire drive, and the coast down the lit London streets seemed to take longer than it ever had. It stretched out for what felt like decades, each second of it elevating my blind fear. My throat was becoming dry, my hands growing sore from clutching them so tight. A sort of pounding was running through my head, and my neck was becoming sore from craning it to look out the window. It felt as if we were riding through molasses, worries and thoughts of Sherlock bouncing around every nook of my mind, never letting up.

Then, we were there. 

The apartment where it all started. Where my new life had started. It was dark with just a single light turned on in the upstairs flat, and my breath stopped. It was because pulling up there gave me a sort of feeling in my chest I could not begin to describe, making my feelings double, and shooting new ones into the mix as well. It was like all at once, I was back in that day seven years ago. Walking up to the doorway of 221B, seeing Sherlock at the step with his coat and scarf and curly dark mop of hair that fell into his bright eyes. _Ah, Mr. Holmes,_ I had said. Shaking hands with him, giving him a warm smile and a swift nod.

_Sherlock, please._

It played in my mind like a movie, our clasped hands and matched smiles. I had no idea what I was getting myself into that day, no idea who Sherlock Holmes was. It was all just a big _guess,_ and all the odds were probably against me. Yet, it all turned out alright. Hell, it turned out more than alright. Meeting Sherlock was a turning point in my life, something that seemed like decades ago and just yesterday at the same time. He saved me from problems I didn’t even know I’d had, and had given me a new life at the time I’d needed it most. The only moment I’d ever regretted it was when I thought I’d lost him, and I wasn’t up to feeling that way again.

But the real world was still going on around me, and Mary and I hopped out of the cab as fast as we could. We paid the driver the appropriate fee with rushed motions, slamming the black doors and rushing to the front step. Frigid wind blew into our tired faces, making them chapped and red, it had gotten even colder outside in our short cab ride. All this I paid no mind to, the thumping in my head and the aching in my lungs commanding all my attention. Sherlock was all I could think about, and I was fearing the worst and blocking out the rest. The whole world besides him seemed to melted away as our feet carried us to the door and I grabbed the handle to see if it was locked.

It wasn’t.

I threw it open, holding it ajar as Mary and I passed through to the threshold. We ushered ourselves in without a word, our eyes traveling to Sherlock’s flat. The air was quiet inside Baker Street and the light was warm like it usually was, but nothing felt normal. There were no sounds of violins playing, detectives shouting, kettles boiling. It didn’t sound like 221B at all, and it felt eery like a tomb. The pounding in my skull thumped on, my breath becoming a wheeze. 

Mary shut the door back up again, and we both began to climb the stairs. We were frantic, clawing our way up the wooden steps without even touching the railings. My heart was pounding faster than I could handle, and I could hear the beats like they were being played on high volume. Why did I feel like it was coming out of my chest, like the walls were closing in on me?

Everything felt like it was going to fast, then too slow. Too much, then not enough. Just a simple task like getting up a flight of stairs seemed as hard as running a marathon, the air we passed through suffocating and making me dizzy. My brain was screaming at me, shouting insults and blames and cries of help. My limbs felt like they were going to fall off, sore from the tension I gave them. I felt like I was was falling, spiraling down where it was dark and empty. _Oh, Sherlock. Where are you? What have you done?_

But then, there we were.

We were inside the flat, at the edge of the sitting room, standing in the doorway of the apartment I had spent four extraordinary years of my life in. The air was dusty as usual, and things were strewn about without care. The violin was in it’s case, the various experiments were thrown across the kitchen table, and the whole room smelled of chemicals and dirty books. Everything seemed completely normal, as any day in the life of Sherlock Holmes. As any day in 221B, really, with guns shooting at the walls and heads stored in the kitchen refrigerator. It welcomed me, giving off the impression of everything I’d expect to find in this apartment.

But there was one thing amiss.

On the couch, lying with his arms spread out and a needle on his chest was none other than the resident of this very flat. He lay with his eyes closed, limbs and body unmoving. His curly dark hair was flattened behind his head and splayed out onto the couch cushions, its spirals creating patterns on the light fabric. There was a brown case with worn down leather bindings and scratched golden latches on the table in front of him, holding vials and needles and other things I had never seen before. His jacket was rolled up to the elbow, a bright pink mark at the very center of his otherwise pale flesh.

The world halted to a stop.

“Sherlock!” I screamed, my voice loud and raw. I was running, running over to him and hanging over his body. My eyes were wide and tears were starting to come out, my stomach flipping and turning all the while. I examined him, running my hands over his face, his hair, his chest, his arms. I saw the needle with him, smelt the poison on his lips. Grasped him by the arms and held on as to shield me from the storm. Everything was coming faster than I could take it, and blood was roaring it my ears like caged lions. Because there Sherlock lay, his face blank and unmoving. I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t register anything. Everything seemed to be happening all at once. There was so much noise, coming from each and every corner of the room, corner of the city, corner of the _world._ I weeped, and my voice became hoarse with overuse from my cries. I had just lost the best man I had ever known, and there was nothing I could do about it. My best friend, Sherlock, was dead. 

But then I saw.  

My eyes widened, and my breath hitched in my throat. I was frozen, my hands still clutched around the detective’s arms, holding them tight enough to make light marks on his skin. A gasp escaped my lips, and my tears coming down halted in their watery tracks.

Sherlock was still breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's worlds clash in this final chapter of Changes People. What has become of them after Sherlock tried to take his life, and what has changed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I am so sorry this took so long, last week was finals week and I barely got to work on this all (priorities, you know). But here it is, the final chapter of Changes People. Please see the end of the chapter for more notes, and some information about the (possible) sequel. Thank you all so much for reading, love you all! Thanks to my editor, Pam!

John’s shaking fingers reached for the mobile in his pocket, and he pulled it out to dial an ambulance. It almost slipped out of his sweaty hands, his digits numb. “Mary,” he said, turning to his wife who was standing horror stricken in the corner of the room, her eyes wide, “you need to keep watch on Sherlock while I call. He’s still breathing.” His voice was shaking, heart pounding in his chest.

Her eyes widened as she hurried over to where the crumpled detective was lying with his eyes closed on the low couch. John punched in the numbers on his phone, reaching up to put the device by his ear. “221B Baker Street, I need an ambulance and quickly, someones taken poison but is still breathing,” he said into the phone, wasting no time while he spouted off directions to the operator. His heart was still thudding in his chest, the air feeling devoid of oxygen and hope. He took in lungfuls of breaths, trying to calm himself as he put the phone away and went over to the couch where the two people sat. 

John ushered Mary away from Sherlock and stood over him, clutching his thin shoulders in his callused hands. The man’s flat chest still moved up and down slowly, and low breaths still came out from his nose. He was still alive, but barely. John’s tears were coming back, slow and thick, and all he could think about was how he _needed to save him._ He leant close into Sherlock face, hugging him as he clutched his body to his chest. “It’s going to be okay, Sherlock. I’m going to save you,” he whispered, tears falling down onto his friend’s cheeks, making tiny trails onto already existent ones from earlier. He sat down on the couch with Sherlock, pulling the upper half of his body onto his lap and leaning over his unmoving face. They began to rock, and John prayed and whispers words of pleading as the tears splashed down. _Please God, let him live._

Mary paced in the centre of the room anxiously, checking out the window periodically to check for the medics. Time seemed to slow down in these moments, just John with Sherlock. The two of them against the world, indeed. They rocked and rocked, tears coming out of John enough for the both of them. It took a while for the ambulance to arrive, John staying with Sherlock the entire wait, curling around his body on the small couch. Mary’s fingernails were starting to wear thin from the way she was chewing on them restlessly when the lights finally flashed outside the flat and she gave a shout of “they’re here, John!” 

Three men and a stretcher passed through the door of 221B, pulling up to the couch where the two men lay. John got up quickly from his sit when he saw them, and helped the medics place Sherlock onto the folded out stretcher. Then the slowness of it all turned into a heartbreakingly fast, and the next moments of getting everyone down the stairs and out the door seemed to pass by in a flash. The lights from the ambulance blared into John’s sore eyes, and he squinted at them as they loaded the stretcher into the car. His tears were still making their way down, and he began to get inside the back of the ambulance without a single thought. The medic last into the car stopped him, a grim expression on his face as he shook his head. 

“Sir, you can’t be in here unless you’re family,” he said, his hand held between like a roadblock. “Are you related to this man?” 

John didn’t even think of it as he answered, not even giving a glance towards Mary. There was no other way to get into the back of that car, and he knew it. He could re-explain later, after they got to the hospital.

“Yes. I’m his husband.” 

The medic raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless ushered him inside. The heavy doors shut behind them when everyone was in, and soon the ambulance was speeding down the street, lights flashing and sirens screaming. John sat next to Sherlock, his hands running their way through his curly tuft of hair. His eyes felt raw from crying, but nothing could distract him from this. They felt like they were skating around the edge of life or death, like they were on the last leg of a race. Were they?

There was a mask on Sherlock’s mouth to feed him oxygen, and medics were examining his heart rate and blood pressure as they sped down the late London streets. Cars moved out of the way as they made their way to the hospital downtown, making John feel sick. The rushing movement of the ambulance shook him as they drove down to the hospital, and everything was starting to feel surreal. The loud sirens were making his ears burn, his whole being feeling raw and tired and spent. Because Sherlock was laying there, unmoving, and there was nothing he could do. 

“Alright here we are, sir,” the medic next to him said. John looked up and saw the doors of the vehicle being open, a ramp being put out. His hands still gripped the face of his friend, but he let go as the cold winter wind hit them inside the ambulance. He let them take the stretcher from him, walking close next to it as it was wheeled into the hospital with the jogging feet of the medics and nurses that met them at the entrance. They reached the doors of the emergency room in minutes, and Sherlock was quickly moved to a gurney as a doctor was being called in. 

John was pushed to the side as the personnel began to swarm around the bed, but he was itching to be with Sherlock again. To be by his side, holding his hand. Not just to keep up a show of being married, but just to be closer. To be with him, to save him. He could help him, he knew medicine, he was a doctor. He had to be there with him, breathing his air and saving his life. Why wasn’t he with him, why wasn’t he keeping him alive?

So he tried to get closer, blood rushing in his ears and knees weak as he pushed his way up against the mob of people huddled around the bed with his best friend. Machines made their shrill noises around him, making everything feel numb. A nurse noticed he was still there, and asked him to wait outside until a doctor came to go get him, her hands pulling him away slowly. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t be in here right now,” she said, pushing him a bit to the doors. “We’ll call you in as soon as possible.”  

John shook his head, edging closer to the station where Sherlock was lying, eyes fluttered shut and skin white as the bones beneath them. He felt ravenous now, all he could focus on was how he needed to be with Sherlock. There was nothing else, nobody else, but him. “No, I can’t, I can’t,” he panted, his voice rough and slight. “I’m a doctor, I can help. Please, let me see him.” More doctors and nurses were running in, and there was the sounds of beeps and shouts all around. It made John feel dizzy, and the tears in his eyes had not stopped. They spilled down, making his knees weak and lips sting. There were so many people around, all going faster than the last, each one running in different directions in the crowed emergency room. Though John didn’t notice them, all he could think about was Sherlock, just a few meters away. He wasn’t going to lose him, he wasn’t. 

He had to save him, had to _do something. He had to._

“I’m sorry, sir but—” the nurse got out before John pushed passed her. Her voice didn’t even register in his mind as he waded through the medical professionals until he was by Sherlock’s side and pulling himself around the body of the man lying there. He held on tight, like he was a rock in the storm, a comfort in a world of pain. _Sherlock, Sherlock. God, no._

“Sir!” the nurse was calling again, the doctors around Sherlock’s bed trying to move John out of the way as they rushed about, yelling in his already ringing ears. John gripped the railings of the hospital bed tightly, ignoring the people who were trying to pull him away and all the while sobbing into Sherlock’s bony shoulder. The room felt like it had tiled on it’s side, and all the words being screamed were beginning to melt into one. “You have to leave!” the same nurse shouted at John, gripping onto his arms as he wept.

“No!” John shouted back at her, throwing his back to the side to toss her off. “I have to be with him, I have to save him! I’m a doctor!” His sobs wracked every part of his body, and the world seemed to come down on him. His right hand encased in Sherlocks and the left still hanging onto the rail as his screams rang out above all the other noise, loud and shrieking and hurtful. “I’m a doctor, I have to save—,” 

John’s words were cut off at the end, a needle being placed into his left arm and a syringe gently pushed down until his vision went blurry, then black. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, the world coming to a close like a storybook. Two nurses grabbed him as he dropped into their arms, his body going still and the screams silenced. “There we go,” one said soothingly, and they began to carry him to the waiting room. They placed him into a chair there, letting him curl up around the hard armrest and breathe slowly in the harsh glare of the fluorescents on the ER waiting room ceiling. The noises from the emergency room were shut off as the doors swung to a close, and he was alone in the bare waiting room. “Sleep soundly, dear,” the nurse whispered, backing away with the other one as John stayed, silenced and cut off from the world.

 

 

It was hours later when John finally woke up again, his neck sore from sleeping wrong and his head fuzzy from the drugs. His dark eyes immediately shot open, scanning the room around him as they rolled around. The waiting room’s plain colours met him, the bright lights sending a bolt of pain through his already pounding head. The room was now filled with little groups of people, all talking softly with each other or reading their respective books and magazines. A women a few chairs down was weeping to herself, holding onto a brown leather jacket as she wailed a name John didn’t recognize with a type of deep sadness that sent a pang through his tight chest. A bolt of lightning through his clouded and thundering head.

 _Sherlock!_ , his mind shouted. He forced himself to get up, his legs wobbly from sitting so long. They staggered their way on the tile linoleum tiles, his hands outstretched to reach for the swinging barrier between him and Sherlock. The rushed, tunnel vision feeling had come back, thoughts of Sherlock racing through his mind furiously. He had almost made it to the door of the emergency room when a man with grey hair and a white coat came out, holding up a hand to stop him. The man had a name tag clipped squarely on his pocket, reading _Dr. Abeshire, MD._ It gleaned as if it had just been shined, meeting John’s wide open eyes like a jewel. “Oh, you’re awake,” the man said, grabbing his arm, “let’s go sit down.” He led him to a nearby set of padded chairs, gripping John’s sleeve tightly the whole way.

John’s mind didn’t register who this man was as he was led to the chairs, his mission to get through the emergency room doors the only thing running through his drug polluted mind. He tried to push himself away, ripping his jacket away from the man’s grasp as he shouted out loudly. “No! I have to go see Sherlock!” He was up again, getting away. 

Then he was running, trying to put as much distance from himself and this man as possible. He didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to do anything but see Sherlock. His Sherlock. There was nothing else in the world right now except for that door, blocking him from his best friend. _Save him, save Sherlock Holmes._  

A tug at the back of his coat pulled him spinning around, and he was facing the man again. A gentle smile was on the greying man’s face, light wrinkles turning up where they lined his pink mouth. “Sir?” he spoke gently towards John, gripping his sleeves like a friend. “I’m your husband’s doctor, Sherlock, is it?” 

John blinked, staring at the man. His husband? Oh yes, the lie he told to get into the ambulance, he remembered. John began to focus more now, the world becoming clearer and sharper. This churning noises in his head to _get to Sherlock, get to Sherlock, get to Sherlock,_ were starting to calm down as the smog in his head began to clear up. “Yes,” he said, walking over with the doctor to the pair of chairs he was trying to indicate to earlier. The pounding in his chest was still going, and the thoughts of vicious getting to Sherlock were changing into words of frightening desperation. 

They sat together, John gripping the material of his jeans in his white fists tightly, knowing this was it. This man was going to tell him Sherlock was dead. He was going to say the words that John had been dreading, the words that would kill him. His best friend was dead and there was nothing he could do about it. He would be dead, for real this time. 

The doctor cleared his throat, fiddling a bit with a button on his white coat as he gave John a slight smile of encouragement. John’s breathes game out short and quick, his throat dry. The anticipating was as deafening as the silence around them. 

“Your husband has taken a toxic chemical,” the doctor began, his eyes boring into John’s deeply, “unknown thus far to our medical team, but one that should have killed him on the spot. It was one that would’ve shut down his organs, including heart and lungs, within minutes. Seconds, maybe,” the doctor said. John’s eyes squeezed shut, his head going down to be held in his hands, fearing what the other man would say next. _And now he’s dead. You’ve lost him forever and you cannot save him. There’s no man to shoot, no criminal mastermind to fight. He’s dead and it’s all there is to it._  

“But, something went wrong,” the doctor continued. John’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “The chemical has. . .expired. It seemed to be acquired many, many, years prior, and has just simply gone bad. It’s very curious though, that it didn’t work. Many chemicals in fact become _more_ toxic after expiring, not less,” he explained, beginning to talk of the properties in poisons that changed when they reached a certain period in their shelf life, but John interrupted.  

“So he’s—”

The doctor smiled, nodding. “Yes, your husband is very much alive.” John’s heart skipped a beat, and shut his eyes as tears welled up inside. They spilled down, grateful and thin like spiderwebs. The world was singing, everything was bright and loud as John breathed in and out his thanks. _Thank you, thank you._

_He’s alive._

 

 

The next few hours John spent alone, sitting in the brightly lit waiting room reading trashy magazines and trying to resist the urge to fight his was into the ER and throw himself onto Sherlock again. There was a strict no visiting policy at this time at night, and he had learnt his lesson the first time he was sedated. Mary has gone home to change out of her wedding dress after leaving Baker Street, and John had texted her to just stay home until later in the morning. Sherlock was alive, he told her. There was nothing they could do right now but wait until they could visit him, in the morning. He knew he should probably not be by himself right now, but it had been Mary’s wedding day, after all. John could handle this on his own, couldn’t he?

But being alone also meant it was just John with his thoughts, and they beat into him relentlessly. It was nearly seven am now, and the same thoughts kept playing on repeat inside John’s mind like a broken record. _He was alive, Sherlock was alive._ The thought of his best friend no longer being in the world made John feel so dark, so sick, so _unable to live;_ this thought of him somehow still here and alive made him feel a rush of elation. Pure, and absolute elation that made it’s way through every vein and pore of his body, filling him with the sort of feeling that had never been matched. It made everything feel okay again, like he could breath again.

But, then his mind would change. And without warning the happiness would turn to a deep sadness, the light turning to a drearily swirling dark that clouded his brain like smoke. Because Sherlock didn’t almost die accidentally, he committed suicide. He tried to kill himself, felt as if he did not have a place in this world anymore and shot himself up with a chemical that was supposed to kill him. _Because of you,_ a small voice in his mind told him. _Your best friend tried to kill himself, and it’s all your fault. All your fault, John Watson. All your fault._  

Then the cycle would start back over, the light and the dark chasing each other around his skull until everything hurt. It was so confusing, and made the room spin as he sat alone curled around himself. John couldn’t save himself from any of the thoughts, they consumed him for the hours as he waited for Sherlock, waited for Mary. Gripped him like an iron fist, squeezing him until it was hard to breathe, making him cross eyed with pain. _He was alive, but he wanted not to be. Because of you, he felt as if he needed to die._ John curled up inside that brain of his as these thoughts tumbled down, closing himself away from the world that seemed to hate him. When would it stop, when would the screams leave his bleeding head? 

The reprieve seemed to never come, but eventually sprang upon him half an hour later when Mary walked through the door. She wore a grey sweater, a pair of dark pants with black flat shoes, and a frown. It was painted upon her face as she entered the room, striding over to where John was sat. His glassy and wet eyes went up to meet her blue ones, and he smiled a little at seeing her. The rushing trains of abuse in his head were starting to leave for the night, his wife coming to meet him. She was like the sun in the middle of a storm. Mary sat in the chair next to him, pulling herself into the same spot the doctor had sat in just hours earlier. 

“Hi,” she said, reaching over to grab John’s hand. She squeezed it gently, giving him a small smile that melted upon her face. “How’s he doing?” Her voice was soft, kind. God, she was so good to him. Why was that, why was she so good?

John swallowed a bit, trying to pull himself back into the world and out of the hole he had dug himself from the day and night his mind had played seesaw with just seconds earlier. “He’s alive. The doctor told me the poisons had expired, were too weak to kill him.” The words were difficult in coming out, even though they were of life, not death. The reminder that this was all his fault was still in the back of his mind, gnawing at him slowly. “Visiting hours start at eight, in just a few minutes.”

Mary nodded, her other hand coming out to cover their already grasped ones. They were cold, dry. John’s were warm and damp from rubbing his eyes. Day and night. “John?” she spoke, staring up into his eyes.

“Yes?” 

She let go of his hands, reaching into her purse to grab something. It was a piece of lined paper, folded up into quarters and littered with messy writing. “You need to read this, before you go see him, okay?” Mary handed him the paper, pressing it into his hand gently. She had tears in the corner of her eyes, just slightly. John took the paper, gripping it tight with a feeling of uncertainty. “I’m going to go to the cafeteria, and leave you to read this and see Sherlock, alright? I know you want to do it alone.” Her voice was strained now, tight. 

John looked up at her as she got out of the chair, leaving him without another word. There were no smiles or frowns exchanged between the two of them, but he watched her as she made her way down the long corridor of the waiting room. When she was out of sight he turned his attention to the slip of paper, unfolding it slowly in his now shaking hands. Then he was reading it, his eyes began to take in the sloppily written words like a long breath. Hesitating after every word, letting it sink in gradually. Tears sprang to his eyes as began to read the starting lines, gathering up in his lids and spilling out below. Each word hurt like a dagger, and made his toes curl and his stomach turn somersaults. The tears thickened as he went, and when he read the words _I love you,_ a sob escaped his raw throat. It ripped through the silent roam, echoing on the white painted walls. People turned to look at him with interest but he paid no mind, his mind focused on the wavering piece of paper in front of his eyes and the beautiful words inscribed on it. He read the rest of the letter as his chest caved in from the inside, tears dropping down on the page and blurring a word or two. The room was spinning again, taking him under it’s strong waves of darkness. By the time he got to the signature at the end, the small _SH,_ John was cradling the letter in his arms, sobbing loudly into his sleeves as everything seemed to pour down on him. _He loved me? He loved me?_

Everything felt heavy, like the air was made of thick gases, choking his throat like soot. He read the letter again, and again, and a last time, with blurred eyes from the hot and salty tears that were spilling onto his face. He couldn’t believe all these words and feelings, pouring out from this piece of paper. These words that spoke of truth, of a time well spent, of _love._ Sherlock loved him, and had since they met. He had _loved_ him. _Sherlock Holmes had loved him._

Everything was changed now. What could he do? What could he say? The man who never felt love, the man who had never even thought someone considered him as a best friend; had _loved_ him. He had loved him, and now John had gotten married. To a woman he loved, granted, but who had changed everything. Because now he was going away to have a family, apart from this man who had given him everything. Who had saved him, granted him another life that he was eternally grateful for. And he had _loved_ him. Had loved him from the day they met and the feelings had never changed, through all they’d done with each other. All they’d been through, all they’d seen. _Loved him, loved him._

Then John was up and out of the chair, the letter still clutched in his fist, running to the doors where Sherlock was held. The world was silent, no sound was being made in his ears except the beating of his heart in his heaving chest. He was through the swinging doors, ignoring the nurses coming to lead him out into the waiting area again. He was speeding past them, the entire room empty except for Sherlock lying there. Legs sprinting to the side the bed where this man, this man who _loved him_ , was held. Sherlock was awake, his mouth shut into a soft line but his eyes open, looking at him with surprise. _John,_ they said. _John, you’re here._  

John pulled himself to the side of the small bed, his hands gripping the sides of Sherlock’s face. They grasped the flesh lightly, hanging on as the beating of his heart went on, reminding him of the life he’d had with this man. Could he have it again? The world seemed to stop turning in this moment and then his lips were on Sherlock’s, kissing them long and deep. He didn’t even think about it, just leant down and did what he had been longing for. Had he been longing for it? Is that what he had wanted?

 Sherlock tensed up as John pressed his lips to his, unsure, but softened and leaned into the kiss as it went on. It was innocent and loving, dear and unsure. Emotion being poured out as they kissed each other like there was no one else. Their hearts began to beat together, pumping blood from one end of their bodies to the other as a synchronized machine, in and out. In and out. Tears were still coming down from John’s eyes as he kissed his best friend tightly, pulling him close to his chest as he sobbed out. “Sh. . .Sherlock,” he whispered. The words couldn’t come out, none of them could. What was he doing? What was happening? What about Mary? But then he said the next words so softly, so lightly, that they were unheard except for the two of them. Alone in the universe, together.

“I love you too, Sherlock. I always have.”

The tides went in and out between them as they broke apart, two sets of eyes looking into each other like they were trying to soak up the moment for forever. A whole novel on conversations passed through these two sets of eyes in these seconds, running like a well rehearsed play. Except it wasn’t. Because neither of them knew what they were doing, what this all meant. What was happening, what had just happened. The moment that changed everything for them, breaking the dam down that had been built up between them for years. A moment that was so raw, so fleeting, yet lasting years upon years. It had more meaning than anything John had ever done, yet he didn’t know what that was yet. But something had changed, had evolved, a switch flipped to a place John never thought existed. 

Oh God, what had he done? 

 

_Marriage may change people, but so does a lethal injection._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's it...or is it? 
> 
> I am considering making a sequel for this, but I have a few other fic ideas that I really want to do and work on as well. So if you're reading this, could you please just drop a review down below about what you would think of having a sequel? It would be much longer this, and much more than just angst angst angst. I know I didn't really tie things up in this triad (though that was kind of the point), but would you all enjoy knowing what happens after? Please tell me! Anyway, thank you ALL for reading, and please just write a quick review about a sequel, or what you thought of the fic (or both!). Thanks! My tumblr is watsonomics.tumblr.com!


End file.
